


The Party Never Stops

by Funkingrunkles



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I think about that a lot, Injury, Minor blood warning, Multi, Soos Ramirez (mentioned) - Freeform, Zombie juice, Zombies, and this is the culmination of those thoughts, character injury, dipper pines (mentioned) - Freeform, post Scaryoke, you know that one scene where Stan is backed up against the stairs and the zombie slashes at him?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:29:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28889892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Funkingrunkles/pseuds/Funkingrunkles
Summary: It's been an incredibly long day at the Mystery Shack, and even weirder than normal. It's all quieted down at two in the morning and it's time for bed--until you find Stan in the basement, passed out at the desk with blood on his shirt.
Relationships: Stan Pines/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	The Party Never Stops

**Author's Note:**

> I KNOW THIS ISNT STEPS AND INCHES PLS DONT KILL ME. Ahem. The next chapter of s&i is actually ready to go, I'm just sitting on it until next week in the hopes of having two chapters to post at once. Pls don't yell at me I love you all very much. 
> 
> Anyway I don't know what this is but please have it in these trying times

Tonight was even more chaotic than it normally would be at the Mystery Shack. Gnomes and gremloblins and the occasional pixie, that you can handle. Zombies? No. Nope. Nuh-uh. The line is decisively drawn at the undead. If it weren’t for Stan, his little niblings would be zombie food and you probably would be too.

Once the kids were tucked in bed, Stan went straight to the basement. You knew he would--your eyes got almost as big as his when Dipper flashed the blacklight over the journal. He asked you to stay upstairs for a while, mostly to keep an eye out for any undead possibly left behind, but also to check in on Soos periodically. The poor guy had a rough day, what with being turned into a zombie, and Stan found him asleep in his “break room” not long after the kids finished his de-zombification.

For the second time this hour, you walk the house slowly and deliberately. You check the locks, the windows, the kids, and Soos. Every dark corner gets a flashlight to check for the lurking supernatural, and every one turns out to be empty. Your circuit ends in the kitchen. You lean the baseball bat against the cabinets and slouch against the counter, sighing heavily. The clock above the table says it’s just past two in the morning. Once upon a time, you and Stan would stay up all hours of the night doing all sorts of... _ things _ , but you’re both getting too old for it now. You rub the back of your neck and sigh again. Time for a trip downstairs.

You step out of the elevator noisily. More than once, you’ve nearly scared Stan to death when he was too deep in concentration to notice your arrival. As you come out of the elevator though, it’s clear that Stan isn’t even working anymore. 

You stop behind him and stare in awe at the lit up portal. It’s  _ blue _ \--for some reason, you never imagined it being blue, but there it is. Blue, glowing, spinning at dizzying speeds and crackling out from the center occasionally. This is…everything. Everything he’s spent the last thirty years working toward. And here he sits, pantless and dead asleep.

You smirk. That’s just Stan’s style.

You run your hand over his shoulders and lean down close to press a kiss to the side of his face, but you stop short. Something’s wrong. He’s clammy to the touch, his breathing is labored, and he doesn’t respond at all. “Stan,” you whisper, shaking him slightly. He grunts in reply. “Stan, get up.”

He lifts his head an inch from the desk and wipes a trail of saliva from his cheek. “Whatime izzit?” he slurs.

Your eyebrows pinch together, looking at his pale face. “It’s two in the morning. Come on, you look terrible.”

He runs his hands over his face, but doesn’t move otherwise. “Ain’t lookin too bad yerself, princess.”

“Mhm, yeah. Get up you old bastard.” You grab one thick arm and tug. There’s no way in hell you can move this mass of chub and muscle, but he thinks it’s cute when you try. 

He starts to stand, then winces and sits back down. His free hand hovers near his chest.

“Stan?” The urgency is creeping into your voice. “Stan, are you okay?”

“‘M fine, don’t worry.” He still doesn’t move.

“Is your chest hurting? Are--are you having a heart attack?”

He grabs your hand and shakes it a little. “ _ Easy _ , easy, I’m just...very old.”

You laugh, but it’s nervous. You keep a tight grip on that hand of his. “You’re four years older than I am, Stan. And I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re in pain. What’s going on?”

He pushes away from the workbench with a grunt. For the first time since he came down here, you see his stomach, and it isn’t good. There’s three long, thin lines of red seeping through his undershirt.

“Stan!” You’re up on your feet again and give him another tug. “We’re going upstairs  _ now _ . Come on, get up.”

He works his way up, wincing and rhissing through his teeth the whole time. As you pull his arm over your shoulders to support him, a cold spike of fear shoots through you. He’s clammy all over; cold skin and sweat all over him. You get as far as the elevator before you start questioning him.

“One of those undead got you, didn’t they?”

He leans against the elevator wall and tenderly puts his hand over the worst of the blood stains. He gives you a strained smile. “I didn’t think it got me with the zombie juice, but I guess it must’a.” He takes a very deliberate breath.

“Come on, the kids saved the leftover zombie un-juice.”

You help him schlep up the stairs one painstakingly slow step at a time. You consider sitting his ass down and bringing the un-juice to him, but you’ve already made it halfway and if he fell down the stairs--oof. You don’t want to think about it 

You sit him down in the kitchen and rush to the fridge. Two containers of different colored Mabel Juice are shoved aside, along with Dipper’s latest fungi specimens, before you finally get your hands on it. The kids haven’t even taken it out of the blender carafe, they just stuffed it in the back of the fridge wherever it’d fit. They probably didn’t think it’d be needed again tonight. 

Stan’s kicked his legs out, head resting back against the wall. His eyes are open but glassy, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. He’s getting paler by the second and the red ooze on his shirt is darkening. You set the carafe on the ground near him and try to slow your own breathing. Panic does not help these situations. 

“Stan, I’m going to go get the first aid kit.  _ Don’t go anywhere _ .”

He gives a chillingly zombie-like groan of acknowledgement.

You tear out of the kitchen and literally run to the upstairs bathroom as fast as your creaky old joints will carry you. You’re only a little more careful coming down them, since you’ve got the first aid box in your arms. The first aid kit goes down on the floor beside the carafe. 

You grab Stan’s shirt by the hem and gently peel the fabric away from the wound. What’s underneath doesn’t look all that bad, all things considered. The scratches aren't deep or jagged, just oozing unnatural colors and turning a little bit green around the edges. No big deal.

He barely responds to you unceremoniously rolling his shirt up to his chest. He doesn’t respond when you pour hydrogen peroxide over the wounds and cough as a heavy,  _ fleshy _ smell fills the room. He only stirs once you’ve got the gauze soaked in anti-juice and pressed it to his stomach.

It goes without saying that you don’t  _ like  _ hearing him cry. Nobody likes to hear a loved one hurt. But from Stan--it’s worse. He doesn’t do that. He doesn’t shout in pain like he is right now, clamping a hand around your wrist in a vice-like grip. The gurgling cry in the back of his throat is going to haunt your dreams for a long, long time. But you don’t let up pressure--you don’t let him pull your hands away from the wound as the magic juice does its work. You keep applying pressure until he stops fighting you, and finally slumps back against the wall. 

You pull your hands away, trembling. It wasn’t this bad for Soos. Even though he had already been fully turned, it wasn’t this bad. Maybe it’s Stan’s age, or the fact that he let it go for hours without treating it, but Soos’s pain reaction had been completely different from Stan's.

The air is thick with a chemical-heavy burning smell. You feel like you’re going to retch for a moment. The silence following all that commotion is deafening.

“Stan.” You wait a moment. Shake his knee. “ _ Stanley _ .”

He turns his face into his shoulder, muttering some nonsense. The relief that floods through you sends you to your knees, doubled over and trying to catch your breath. God, you know you’re getting old, but this is just ridiculous.

“Grunkle Stan?”

Your back goes rod-straight as your head simultaneously whips around to the small voice in the doorway. Mabel has pillow marks on her cheek, but her eyes are wide open in horror. You quickly move to put your body between her and the view of Stan.

“Sweetie, what are you doing up?”

“I heard yelling--I wanted to make sure everyone was okay--” she tries to crane her neck around you to see Stan.

You take her firmly by the shoulders and turn her toward the stairs in the other direction. “Your Grunkle is just being a stubborn old man. I’m sorry we woke you, everything’s alright.”

“Go to bed Mabs,” he grumbles behind you.

On the bottom stair, Mabel turns to look you over. You cross your arms and give her the best “ _ young lady _ ” look you’ve got. “I wouldn't lie to you. He’s okay, I promise.”

Some of the tension in her little shoulders eases. “Okay. Goodnight.”

You wait just long enough to not draw suspicion, then rush back into the kitchen.

“Sorry,” Stan slurs.

Your shoulders sag. Stan’s sitting upright again, grimacing but regaining color in his face. Your worry is immediately replaced with anger, which you stamp down in favor of exhaustion.

“Next time I’m just going to tie you up and turn you into an exhibit,” you spit, sinking into the other chair at the table.

“Hey, that’s not a bad idea.”

You shoot him a glare that spells death. He flashes a tired grin.

Stan bandages himself up--he never lets you do it, no matter how hard to reach his newest battle wound is--and slowly cleans up the mess you left behind on the floor. When that’s done, he stands behind your chair and rests heavy hands on your shoulders. “I’m  _ sorry _ ,” he says again. 

“I don't know why you won't just tell me things. After twenty years, I'd think…”

“You think what?”

You crane your neck to look up at him. His face is a normal color again, thank the stars, but he still looks unspeakably weary. “Don't you trust me?”

He immediately sighs and leans in, rubbing his warm hands up and down your arms. “Sweetheart, ya know I do. It isn't about that, I was just more focused on the kids ‘n Soos getting squared away. And  _ you _ .”

“And the journal…” you add teasingly.

He snickers. “And the journal.” He presses a kiss to the side of your neck and lingers there a moment. “Everything’s gonna change when I get him back.”

“I know.”

“I gotta protect the kids from all this. I know I should send ‘em home, I know it's selfish to keep ‘em…”

“Stan, if you just explain it to them, they  _ will _ understand. They’re smart kids.”

He nods against the crook of your neck. “I'm tired of lyin’,” he says softly.

You tap one of his arms and stand, twisting until you're facing him and bringing him into a hug. “You're tired in general. Come on, it's been a long day and I  _ swear _ , if you don't sleep tonight we’ll all lose our minds tomorrow.

“Mmm, hate it when you're right.”

You smile and press a kiss to his cheek. “Come on old man. Let's go to bed.”


End file.
